The Lost Bet: II
by S. Faith
Summary: Sometimes a lose can be a win, i.e. the table-turning scenario for The Lost Bet: I. Heh.


**The Lost Bet: II**

By S. Faith, © 2012

Words: 1,721  
Rating: M / R  
Summary: Sometimes a lose can be a win…  
Disclaimer: Have I mentioned these are not my characters?  
Notes: It didn't seem right not to present the reverse scenario.

* * *

"You have to come. You absolutely _must_."

He turned to his work colleague. "And why _must_ I come?"

Broad grin. "Because as many people as possible must bear witness to this lost bet." He stopped to take a sip of coffee. "Friend of my wife's."

"Why?"

"Oh, it's got to be ultimate humiliation. The more, the merrier."

"And your wife. What does your wife have to say about this?"

"What does she have to say?" He laughed loudly. "It's her _idea_! She _insists_!" Another sip of coffee. "_And_ she's easy on the eyes."

He instinctively knew his friend was not referring to his own wife. "How do you mean?"

"How do you think I mean?" he countered. He held up his hands, and drew the universal hourglass shape indicating a curvaceous figure.

He was intrigued but still felt a bit uneasy. "Jeremy," he said sternly, "I don't know how I feel about actively participating in the humiliation of another human being."

"It's going to happen whether you're there or not. Besides, we all love her and it's all in good fun…" he said, then winked. "What do you say?"

After a pause, he agreed: "All right. When is it?"

"Tonight."

…

He arrived at the appointed place (pub) at the appointed time (half eight in the evening), and immediately found Jeremy, who had saved him a seat at a tall table. Beside him was his wife, the apparent instigator of this event, and he said hello to her. He noted with some concern that there was an area in the centre that had been cleared away, leaving only a single chair in the centre with some lights focused upon it. "You're just in time," Jeremy murmured, then pointed: "I got you a pint."

"Thanks." He picked up the bitter and took a sip; it was very refreshing. As he moved to set the glass down, the lights began to dim and voices began to raise in a quiet cheer. Motion at the side of the room caught his eye just as music began to play. The cheers raised briefly before quietening. Then she stepped into the light, the subject of the degradation, and immediately two things became apparent: that she was taking the bull by the proverbial horns with a confident stride and winning smile, and that Jeremy's assessment about her figure had been spot on.

She had obviously prepared some choreography; it was rather basic but she was very effective in her delivery of the moves, and she demonstrated a sense of rhythm that, while not perfect, was certainly close enough.

In a moment, he realised it was actually three things that were apparent, not two. It occurred to him he knew her, though from very different circumstances and entirely different attire. Then had been a dress that had appeared to be made of upholstery fabric; now, however, was a tight cotton short-sleeved blouse and a miniskirt. He could hardly believe his eyes; his eyes never left her as she danced.

It was more than just a dance, though. She flipped open a button then slipped the shirt down her shoulders, revealing that she was dressed in what looked very much like a man's sleeveless vest. She did a few spins around and stopped in time with the music, and he quickly realised the air in the stage area must have been very cold; she was very alert, indeed, beneath the vest, despite her moving about. She slipped the mini down over her hips, sitting on the chair to kick her legs up and flip the skirt off of her toe and away. Beneath that, she was wearing what appeared to either be pants, or the bottom of a bikini.

He thought less now of her embarrassment and more about how his heart was beginning to race watching her move around. She had a sensuality about her he found mesmerising, particularly as she began to slowly roll down a thigh-high stocking from one leg, tossing the little nylon rosette it formed off to the side. She then performed the same task on the other side.

With that completed, she stood again and reached to the waist of the vest, then pulled up; for a split-second he wondered if she really would bare it all, but beneath the vest was the match to the bikini bottoms. All too soon, it seemed, the song was ending, and she did a little bow.

Then she looked directly to the table at which he sat, narrowed her eyes, and then stuck her tongue out. He quickly realised that it was not him to which her invective was delivered, but to Jeremy's wife, particularly when her expression changed when she finally saw and obviously recognised him.

At last she looked horrified.

She went for her cotton blouse as someone came over with her skirt. After she was as dressed as she was going to get, she came over to the table.

"Nicely done," said Jeremy.

"Thanks," she said in a standoffish, almost sarcastic way, addressing both Jeremy and his wife. Then, turning to him, she offered a hesitant smile. "You are the last person I expected to find here."

He was finding it difficult to form a thought, let alone whole words, and was grateful when Jeremy spoke up. "Mark, I didn't know you and Bridget knew each other. What a small world."

"Yes," Mark managed. He turned to Jeremy, explaining in a brusque tone in an effort to regain his composure, "She's the daughter of my parents' friends." He shifted his gaze back to her only to catch the tail-end of a sour expression; however, his matter-of-fact statement sent Jeremy into gales of laughter.

"Oh, she did her mum and dad proud tonight, didn't she?" Jeremy said. "Oh… I can barely breathe. Another round of drinks, on me." With that he lurched off towards the bar.

"I'd better make sure he doesn't fall down," said Magda, then went after her husband.

Mark turned to Bridget, who'd set her jaw firmly. He wasn't sure what he'd done to offend but thought it would be best to be conciliatory. "I thought your performance was quite good," he said.

"Oh, _yes_. Bet you can't _wait_ to ring up and report in to your mum," Bridget said sharply, meeting Mark's eyes. "Bet now you're thinking you _really_ dodged that bullet, aren't you?"

He furrowed his brows. "Pardon?"

"Well, you know… them trying to fix us up on New Years Day. Bet you're grateful now it didn't work."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," he said, his eyes drifting down of their own free will. "It's been enlightening, seeing a different side of you."

"Ahhh," she said. "You mean these." She pointed to her breasts. "Understood."

"No…" he said quickly, then, realising it rang untrue, he added, "well yes, I mean, it _was_ nice to see you without that awful dress, I can't lie, but…" He paused. "The way you took on the dance said a lot about who you are, your personality… rather than do it hesitantly, you… well, as a result, I find I… find you rather attractive."

She gave him a look conveying her puzzlement before she laughed. "Yes, my _personality_ was on full display out there stripping."

He glanced up and saw Jeremy and Magda returning with two pints and two glasses of white wine. "You seem determined," said Mark as he looked back towards her, "not to take a compliment."

That seemed to stun her into silence as Magda set down a glass of wine before her. "Here's your victory lap," Magda said with a laugh.

"Victory lap dance, more like!" This was a new voice that sounded out from behind Bridget, a blonde with a knit cap and a lascivious grin, sloshing her own glass of wine. "He looks game enough!" This newcomer pointed directly at Mark.

"Shaz, really," said Magda. "You're drunk."

"Like this should be a surprise." Two others had come up, other friends of Bridget's, he guessed; one was a man who gave her a big kiss on the cheek. "You were wonderful. If I were inclined, I'd be inclined, if you know what I mean." He winked then turned to Mark and held out his hand. "I'm Tom. You are…?"

"Mark," he said, taking the proffered hand and shaking.

"The pleasure is all mine, Mark," said Tom. "This is Sharon, and that's Jude. You here with Bridge?" Tom looked between the two of them.

"Not exactly," said Mark. He picked up his bitter and took a long sip. "We were childhood friends."

"Mark?" came the voice from the third of the group of friends, whom Tom had identified as Jude. "Mark Darcy?"

He nodded. "Yes," said Mark. "Have we—oh, we have met. I remember now. Brightlings."

"Yes!" Jude said, then explained to the others, "We worked together!" To Mark again, she said, "You were great to work with. Absolutely super. Love to do it again sometime." Her gushing was obviously exacerbated by her drunkenness but had a curious result: Bridget looked conflicted yet thoughtful.

"Oh, God!" Shaz blurted out. "_You_ wore that bloody jumper. The reindeer one." Then she began to laugh. "But you said he was a nerd!" Mark was puzzled that she had made mention of the thing to her friends.

Tom cocked a brow. "Oh, that was _you_," he said drolly, though with a grin. "Well, who among us hasn't, really? Our great national tragedy."

"I'm starving, Bridge," said Shaz. "Get your shirt on and let's go."

"My shirt _is_ on," said Bridget, looking down.

"You coming?" Jude asked of Jeremy and Magda.

"Can't, have to get back to the children."

Jude then turned to Mark. "And what about you?"

"I'd love to," he said automatically, then glanced towards Bridget, who looked a little taken aback. "If that's all right with you."

She tilted her chin ever so slightly upwards. "Of course it's all right. Why wouldn't it be all right?" she challenged, though smiled slightly as she did.

"Can't think of a single reason," Mark said, "except the continuation of bullet-dodging."

She looked at him in utter confusion, as did the others, at his reference to their earlier conversation. He watched, though, as his meaning trickled through… and then she smiled again, broadly and brightly.

_The end._


End file.
